He knew what Charlotte looked like at any given time and in any given place. For pity’s sake, he had studied her face, figure, and form nearly every day of their friendship until nothing about her looks was a mystery. Yet he had never seen her look thus. Hadn’t felt this pain in so long.
Had time away from her only made his longing worse?
It couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be longing for her at all. He needed a clean break, needed even more distance, needed to drown himself in Diana Palmer or any other woman until it was Charlotte who faded, not them.
Yet he could not act with haste. He had seen all too often what happened when feelings of passion or desperation were indulged. He could not, would not, subject the woman he married to such a future, and to such inelegance of feeling on his part.
No more, he thought. After tonight, no more Charlotte in any form.
It wasn’t for his sake he would do this. It was for Diana. If not her, the woman he courted after her. Whoever she was, wherever she was, the woman who would replace Charlotte in his affections deserved no competition.
He smiled at Diana as he took his seat beside her, turning his form just enough that he could see nothing of Charlotte at all, and she would only see his back, should she have looked. The position brought him closer to Diana as well, which was undoubtedly safer, and better for all concerned.
He exhaled slowly as the overture ended, and the opera began.
Charlotte was dying.
Slowly and without any ado, she was going to die.
Michael was done with her. That was abundantly clear, and she had no time or space to mourn the loss of him. She had just come round to the idea that they would not be as close as they had been previously, but she hadn’t thought they would cease to be friends entirely.
She hadn’t reveled in the thought of sharing the family box with him tonight, particularly when he was clearly courting Miss Palmer, and it would be far more difficult to encourage Jonathan when Michael was around.
It was amusing; she had only just begun to think of Mr. Riley as Jonathan, not that he had given her permission to use his Christian name, and in considering him in such a way, she felt the ties between them tighten. Felt closer to him than they undoubtedly were. Gave her an interesting scene to imagine in her unoccupied hours.
Finding that scene was nearly impossible at the present, though the man who played in it sat beside her, laughing in all the correct parts of the opera.
She forced herself to laugh, though anyone paying attention would notice she was a notch or two delayed in doing so.
She was too focused on whether Michael was laughing. If Miss Palmer was laughing. If they were paying any attention to the opera or if they were more enthralled with each other than in any of the performances.
How many evenings had she and Michael spent in this box, surrounded by other people, but always gravitating towards each other? Enjoying good performances and commenting on them, mocking poor performances and criticizing them, laughing in muffled tones that her mother was constantly scolding them for. Michael had always been there, and she’d never had reason to think that would change.
The memories in this box enveloped her, robbed her lungs of air, and her eyes began to sting with tears.
They hadn’t reached the interval yet, but Charlotte suddenly felt choked by the sensations here.
Michael leaned closer to Miss Palmer to whisper something that made Miss Palmer smile in what had to be the most beautiful smile to ever grace a face.
Whether Michael loved, or would love, Miss Palmer was irrelevant. What was entirely relevant, and entirely evident, was that she was now more to him than Charlotte was.
She could not watch this, could not see him like this with her, could not stand to be confined in this space with him.
She got to her feet and stepped around Jonathan quickly.
“Are you all right?” he whispered quietly, his features wreathed in concern.
Charlotte nodded, forcing a smile. “I only need a bit of air. I won’t be a moment.”
“Shall I come with you?” Georgie asked, beginning to rise.
Charlotte waved her down. “It’s only the fit of my gown. I’ll return presently.”
Fearing Tony would follow, as he had threatened once before, Charlotte rushed out of the box and hurried down the corridor. Her slippers made no sound at all on the carpet, though her skirts rustled enough to direct anyone to her position, should they be searching.
Blessedly, the family box was situated near one of the square rooms in the theater. It was generally reserved for use by members of the peerage or members of Parliament, but Charlotte did not care enough to avoid it. She needed a space to breathe and recover, and she refused to hunt for an alcove. Every story of poor behavior at a theater occurred in an alcove, which struck her as odd, as alcoves were not nearly so plentiful for such things, nor did they allow for necessary privacy in most cases.
A square room, however…
Charlotte entered and moved directly to a chair, sinking into it and slumping forward, stripping her gloves off and pressing her hands against her face. Her breath came slowly and unsteadily, each inhale painful and each exhale draining. She had never been particularly skilled at playing a part, and here she was, acting a role while burying her natural inclination and disposition at the same time.
She was incapable of doing so.
Until she found some control over her emotions, she would not be able to maintain the necessary façade for the evening.
Once this evening was over, she’d be able to create a strategy to avoid seeing Michael more often than society would dictate, and especially in a more direct setting such as this. She had enough connections and allies to inform her of guest lists, so planning would be easy and essential. All she had to do was survive the evening, uncomfortable and unplanned though it was, and then she need never experience this again.
She slid her hands to her mouth, swallowing hard, shuddering another exhale as she sought control.
“What is it?”
Charlotte closed her eyes, fighting the wild inhale that would completely undo her and forcing her breathing to find a steadier pace, limited though it would be.
She opened her eyes and lowered her hands to her chin, allowing herself to smile at Michael as he stood in the doorway of the room, his hands at his side. “You needn’t have followed me, you know. You’re here with guests, you should go back to them.”
Michael did not react but for the fingers of his right hand rubbing together. “What is it?”
She ought to have known he would see through her politeness. Still, she was not about to confess her pain to satisfy his curiosity. “My dress,” she lied easily, just as she had to Georgie. “The bodice is particularly fitted, and I feel rather trapped in it. Nothing drastic, just my lack of fashionable training to give me the proper stamina.”
His brow wrinkled, and he took four steps into the room. “Why do I not believe you?”
Charlotte managed to quirk a brow and dropped her hands to her lap, elbow at her knees, still slumped over inelegantly. “Because you’ve never worn a gown that requires a tighter setting of your stays than is reasonable.”
He blinked once. “I generally don’t wear stays at all, so I can agree with you there.”
She grinned without meaning to, his usual dry quip doing more to set her to rights than anything else could have, even if his voice lacked an encouraging tone. Quickly, she sobered and straightened in her seat.
“I like Miss Palmer, Michael,” she told him, the words nearly choking her, true though they were.
Michael almost smiled but didn’t quite manage it. “That’s because she’s nearly obsessed with you and the Spinsters.”
“Well, that does help her win more favor,” Charlotte admitted with another smile, this one more controlled. “It shows her excellent taste.”
“It certainly shows something, I grant you.” He moved further into the room, watching Charlotte.
That searching look, the eyes that could see more than she wanted, was more than she could bear. She rose and turned her back to him, rubbing her palms together. “She seems rather lovely,” she told him, her voice perhaps a touch too loud. “Sensible, intelligent, and good-natured. Have you known her long?”
“Charlotte, we’re not going to talk about Diana in here.”
His use of her Christian name slashed through Charlotte painfully, seizing her chest with a chill that took a number of heartbeats to recover from. “I’m trying, Michael,” she whispered harshly, glancing over her shoulder without actually looking at him. “As your friend, I’m trying.”
“Don’t,” he said, the word almost a bark. “Don’t try to enjoy this. Don’t try to make it better that I’m doing this, that you’re here with Riley, that we can’t avoid each other here.”
Charlotte closed her eyes again, her throat moving on a lump she simply could not swallow. “I didn’t know we were avoiding each other. I didn’t know you were shutting me out. I didn’t know we were ending our friendship as we pursued love for ourselves.”
Michael didn’t respond, which prompted Charlotte to turn to face him.
His expression was hooded, his fingers now fists at his sides, his eyes on her.
Anger roared within Charlotte, and she took two steps forward. “I didn’t know,” she snapped, “that my best friend was replacing me with a pretty girl ten years his junior. I didn’t know that, in spite of cutting me off, you still feel entitled to ask my family for favors.”
Michael’s mouth opened as though he would retort something, but Charlotte wasn’t finished.
“I didn’t know,” she went on, “that you wouldn’t be laughing with me anymore. That we couldn’t even look at each other anymore. That I would begin to lose years and years of memories with you because you could not stand to be near me during one of the most terrifying times of my life.”
“What else am I supposed to do, Charlotte,” Michael cried, his hands splaying out before him in an almost desperate gesture, “when I am still madly in love with you?”
Whatever Charlotte had been about to say vanished, and her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach, making her toes tingle ominously. “What?”
Michael shook his head, exhaling what seemed to be a laugh, though torment lay in his features rather than humor. “You still don’t see. After all this time, you still don’t…” He shook his head and strode forward, jaw set.
Charlotte stuttered back a step or two, her breath hitching in the face of his determined approach.
Then his mouth was on hers, his hands on either side of her face, his body flush against hers. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could not comprehend that Michael… Michael…
Instinctively, Charlotte relaxed against him, began to move her lips against his, sighed against the exquisite pleasure such an action gave her. Michael held her closer, kissed her deeper, and Charlotte felt her pulse begin to pound in her ears and her lips, taking over everything else she could feel. She snaked her hands up to his neck, tugging him closer without thinking.
Michael groaned and began to kiss her as though life itself was at an end, wild and intense, overwhelming her with passion and need, sending her thoughts and emotions swirling in a thousand different directions. She would never breathe again, would burst into flame on the spot, would forever crave this madness… Would never feel herself whole without it…
With a gasp that sprang from one or both of them, Michael shoved away from her, causing them both to stumble.
Charlotte panted in a haze of desire and confusion, staring at him, waiting for the fog to lift, wondering if they might continue the foray…
Oh, blessed saints above…
A hand went to her mouth as realization dawned, cold and terrifying. Michael’s eyes were wide and staring back at her, his chest heaving, horror rampant in his expression.
He shook his head quickly, swallowing. Blinked. Shook his head again, much more firmly.
Charlotte mouthed his name, not sure what she meant by it. Apology? Pleading? Assuring?
All of them at once?
She’d never been kissed in her life before this, and instinct had taken over. That it happened to be Michael was both the best and the worst possible option. He would never tell, would never think less of her, would never see her ruined for it.
But nothing could be as it had been after this.
Not ever.
Michael slowly backed away from her, his fingers again fists, then turned and strode from the square room at a clip that she could not hope to match while her legs continued to tremble.
Inhaling deeply, exhaling the same, Charlotte glanced down at the floor, willing her pulse to slow and steady, waited for her face to cool, and tried for logic. She had been kissed by Michael, and she had kissed him back. Attacked him, really. Rather unfair to lay that upon her with her inexperience.
Still, now she knew what a kiss was like, and knew that she was weak to it. Rather susceptible, if she could kiss Michael in such a way, of all people. She’d have to behave with more care in the future.
Another insight in her journey to love.
That was all.
It had to be.
Chapter Sixteen
It is often said that how one reacts to adversity is rather telling. In this author’s opinion, it is not the reaction itself that is telling, but the intention. Intention is the root of all things.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 30 August 1816
Michael hadn’t been to church this much since his sisters fancied the young clergyman in their youth, and he’d been forced to escort them to any service they attended.
His heart was in a far better place now than it had been then, but a desperate need for repentance would do that for a man.
He had kissed Charlotte.
Well, that was putting it a bit mildly, considering he had practically attacked her, but the distinction really wasn’t all that necessary.
Years and years of wondering what it would be like, and in one reckless moment of desperation, he’d given in and kissed her. Kissed her soundly while the woman he was planning on courting sat watching the opera, no doubt wondering where he had gone.
He couldn’t even remember what excuse he’d made for following Charlotte, likely some simple line about checking on her, which was true.
What was also true was that he could not help himself.
He had spent nearly the entire first half of the opera completely ignoring Charlotte. He’d kept his back to her and focused entirely on the opera and on Diana. He’d begun to feel rather proud of himself, thinking his efforts had been a success, when a rustling behind him had drawn his attention there, seeing Charlotte disappear out of the box. No rush of emotions, no evidence of distress, she’d simply left the box before the interval had begun.
Michael had shared a look with Riley, who had shrugged, and with Georgie, who looked after Charlotte almost at once.
It was enough to force Michael to leave, as well.
A habit borne from years of following Charlotte. Observing Charlotte. Caring for Charlotte.
Loving Charlotte.
But how could he have known that she would express such feelings about his behavior? That he had been disappointing her, hurting her, and she still did not comprehend his motivation. She could do exactly the same to him, had been doing so for years, and he had accepted it as his lot. As his fate, knowing she would never love him.
When he began to live independent from her, she erupted in a tower of indignation. And in response, he had confessed something he had kept from her for years. It should have settled everything, but instead, she had been shocked by it.
What had he been doing with his life? How could he have spent all this time with her, around her, and thinking about her, and yet never make it clear that he had been doing it for love of her?
The moment had taken over his sense and his control, there was no other explanatio
n for it. Heady, passionate, and stunning though it had been, it had been a mistake of the grossest manner. A betrayal of his pride and honor, his plans, and his self-respect. He’d been half tempted to abandon the entire party at the opera and take himself off to his country estate, but, thankfully, he’d regained enough sense to calmly return to the box and resume his seat beside Diana.
He hadn’t talked to another soul the whole evening but her.
Charlotte returned to the box at some point, but he’d forced himself not to notice, not to care, and even now could not recollect at what point she’d returned.
That had been several nights ago, and he still hadn’t officially established a courtship with Diana. He thought it only right that he should be free of his feelings for Charlotte before he did so, and that he should feel he had done penance enough to expunge the mistake from his soul.
And that brought him to this chapel a stone’s throw from his London home, sitting quietly in the pew.
Praying.
“I’m beginning to think you ought to have become a clergyman.”
Michael smirked to himself and raised his head, glancing to the aisle where Miranda Sterling stood. “I’d have been dreadful at it, I can assure you.”
“That doesn’t stop a great many clergymen, which proves you would have been decent enough.” She smiled and flicked her fingers, indicating he move further down the bench.
He did so, gesturing for her to sit beside him. “What makes you think I come here often?”
Miranda’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “I’ve seen you, Michael. You’ve taken to coming around the same time every day, and it happens to be when I come.”
He cocked a brow at her. “You attend church daily?”
“I’m a devoted Christian, my dear, but even I am not so pious.” She scoffed and turned her turbaned head towards the front of the chapel. “No, I meet with Mr. Jenkins on the regular. It is astonishing how abandoned the poor of each parish are in London. One would never dream of such in the country, but we forget all manners in London. So I come for a daily assignment to assist where I can.”
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